


Faith

by MyOwnSuperintendent



Series: Welcome [6]
Category: The X-Files
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-12
Updated: 2020-05-12
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:49:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,803
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24138400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MyOwnSuperintendent/pseuds/MyOwnSuperintendent
Summary: In Wyoming, Scully considers her own faith through her conversations with Emily. Part of the "Welcome" season 11 AU, set between "Conversations" and "At the House."
Relationships: Fox Mulder/Dana Scully
Series: Welcome [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/899139
Kudos: 15





	Faith

**Author's Note:**

> This series is based on the Season 11 Emily casting rumors, which turned out to be very false.
> 
> I don't own The X-Files or anything related to it. Hope you enjoy!

When they go downstairs in the morning, both of the kids are gone.

Of course, Emily’s an adult, and William’s not exactly a baby either, at seventeen. And it’s not as though she and Mulder have any authority over them, Scully thinks. There’s no reason to expect them to consult with two near strangers about where they go or what they do.

None of that keeps her from a rising feeling of panic, when she looks around the house and doesn’t see them anywhere. Emily’s door is ajar; even William’s isn’t tightly shut as usual. _Something has happened_ , she thinks. _Someone’s taken them._ And then, when her rational mind points out that they heard nothing, that there are no signs of a struggle: _They’ve left. They’ve gone. They don’t want to be here with us._ Because William’s made that clear enough, and maybe Emily threw in her lot with him, even though she’s seemed to want to get to know them. She wouldn’t blame her, might even admire her for it. But having this chance, even if it felt slim and complicated and heart-breaking, and now having it taken away again…

“Are their things here?” Mulder’s face is pale.

“We can’t go through their things,” Scully says.

“But if something—”

“We can’t go through their things,” she says; she hears her own voice sharp, rising. “We need them to trust us and we can’t go through their things!”

“Do you think they left?” he asks, pain in his voice. “You don’t think Emily…”

“I don’t know,” she says. She looks out the window; there’s so much land. So many places for two kids to get lost. _They must have loved growing up here_ , she thinks, and almost hates the thought. “Should we go out and look?” It sounds like a wild goose chase even as she’s saying it, but she doesn’t want to sit here and do nothing.

They’re collecting their shoes from the guest room when they hear a car. When they rush downstairs, Emily and William are just closing the door behind them. She’s wearing a blue skirt and cardigan set; he’s wearing a button-down shirt and khaki pants.

“Oh, good morning!” Emily says, smiling. “Did you two find everything for breakfast? Will, don’t—” But he’s already pushing past them, on his way up the stairs. They hear his door slam. It still hurts, but the relief at knowing he and Emily are alive and home makes up for it a little.

“Where—” Her voice still sounds shrill, and she makes herself steady it. “Where were you two?”

She still sounds frightened, she thinks, because Emily’s face takes on a look of concern. “Oh, gosh,” she says. “We didn’t mean for you to worry about us. We were at church.”

At church. She was thinking abduction, abandonment, and they were at church, where many people go on a Sunday morning, which this is. “Oh,” she says. “Of course.”

“I’m really sorry if we frightened you,” Emily says. “You weren’t downstairs yet when we left, and I didn’t want to wake you up.”

“It’s okay,” Scully says. She’s clinging on to the kitchen island, she realizes; she lets go.

“Nothing to apologize for,” Mulder adds.

“We didn’t want to miss again this week,” Emily explains. She doesn’t say anything more, but Scully does the math; last Sunday was the day after they arrived. Things were probably too chaotic for Emily and William to think about church.

“That makes sense,” she says. “We just…I forgot what day it was, I guess.”

“It happens,” Emily says. “I should have mentioned it to you last night. We should have invited you.”

Now that’s a thought. She imagines sitting in a pew beside the two of them. Somehow, she doesn’t think it would make her relationship to her faith any more straightforward.

“It’s all right,” she says again. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

Emily studies them, her brow furrowed. “Do you go to church, usually?” she asks. “I mean, you don’t have to…I mean, we do, but…”

“It’s not really my thing,” Mulder says, lightly. From the look on Emily’s face, Scully can’t tell if this is what she expected.

“I do sometimes,” Scully says. “Mostly at the holidays. I used to go to mass then with my mom. Your grandmother,” she says, wondering what that relationship would have been.

“Oh, you’re Catholic?” Emily asks, and Scully nods. “And your mom…is she…did she pass or…?” She, too, seems unsure how to navigate this relationship at second hand.

“Yes, she passed away a couple of years ago,” Scully says.

“I’m so sorry,” Emily says. “That’s…that’s very sad.” Scully’s struck by the words she chooses. She wonders if Emily is sympathizing with her or mourning for herself.

“Thank you,” she says.

“You could still come with us if you wanted to,” Emily says. “Everyone is very friendly, at our church. But you don’t have to,” she adds quickly.

Scully thinks about the two of them coming through the door this morning. William had been smiling, until he caught sight of her and Mulder. Maybe church is a place where he’s happy. Maybe it’s one where she shouldn’t intrude. She settles for, “Thank you for asking us,” which isn’t a yes or a no.

Emily knows she’s being diffident, she can tell; her daughter is no fool. But she doesn’t press it. She just says, “Did you have breakfast yet? Do you want to make something together?” And when they nod, she opens the refrigerator.

Scully wakes up early the next Sunday, but she doesn’t approach the kids. She watches the car pulling away before she goes downstairs. Thinking about Emily’s cooking, she decides that she’ll make breakfast today; Mulder and Emily will want to share it with her, she thinks, even if William doesn’t. And even if he doesn’t, at least she can offer. At least she can let him know that she’s going to keep trying.

They come through the door, dressed nicely again, talking to each other. “…think about it,” Emily is saying. “Because I think it would make all of you happier…” She breaks off, when she sees Scully.

“Good morning,” Scully says. “How was church? I thought we could have breakfast…” William starts for the stairs.

“William!” Emily calls after him. “You’re not paying attention to anything I—” But her voice fades as he disappears from sight. “I’m sorry,” she says. “I’m trying.”

“You don’t have to,” Scully says. “Mulder and I will. It’s not your job.”

Emily doesn’t look as if she much cares for the idea of something not being her job, but she nods. “I try to keep telling myself,” she says, “that it’ll happen when it’s meant to. And it will.”

“Yes, when he’s ready,” Scully says. “We can have breakfast, anyway. The two of us. And Mulder will be down soon.”

“That sounds nice,” Emily says. “It was sweet of you to make this, Dana.”

“That’s what I’m here for,” Scully says, even though it sounds kind of silly. “Well, one of the things I’m here for, anyway.” Emily laughs and takes a piece of fruit.

“Did you have a nice morning?” she asks Emily.

“Yes, thank you,” Emily says. “There was a good sermon. It…well, I think it helped me.” Scully wonders if she herself could say that kind of thing, openly, to someone she really didn’t know that well yet. She wonders if she wishes she could.

“Did you go to this church with your…?” She wishes she knew what to call the Van de Kamps. “Well, have you been going since you were kids?”

“Yes, since I came here,” Emily says. “I guess pretty much everyone around here goes there, if they’re going.”

“That makes sense,” Scully says. She forgets they’re not in the city.

“So we know everyone,” Emily continues, “and that makes it like home.”

Home. A fraught proposition for all of them. “Have you told anyone,” Scully asks, “about us?”

“Just Steve,” Emily says. “Otherwise no. Not yet. And I don’t think Will has either.”

“You know it’s okay for you to talk about it,” Scully says. “This doesn’t have to be a secret.” She doesn’t want it to be, but more than that she doesn’t see how it can be. Not forever.

“I know,” Emily says. “And I’m sure people would be nice about it. It’s just hard to explain.” That’s an understatement. “I’m doing all right, though. Like I said, the sermon helped.”

“What was it about?” Scully asks.

“Meeting people where they are,” Emily says. “So you can help them.”

A topic seems like it could hold meaning for more people than just Emily. “That sounds nice,” she says, hoping it doesn’t sound too weak, too vague.

“It was,” Emily says.

Emily comes through the door on Saturday morning with a large shopping bag. “Toys,” she announces, setting it down on the kitchen island.

“I’m sorry?” Scully says.

“We’re a little old for toys,” Mulder says, grinning, “but it was sweet of you to think of it.”

“They’re for the church drive,” William announces. It’s still unusual for him for address them when he’s not responding to a direct question; Scully wonders if he’s trying to show them how much they still don’t know about their children.

“Yes,” Emily says. “I bought them yesterday after work. I thought maybe we could wrap them here.”

“Sure,” Scully says. “That sounds good.”

“Will, could you get the wrapping paper?” Emily asks. He nods, darting out of the kitchen quickly. But he returns soon enough, with Christmas wrapping paper, covered in wreaths and bells and smiling Santa Clauses.

They take the paper, a roll of tape, and Emily’s bag into the living room, and the four of them settle around the table to wrap the toys. It’s easier this way, Scully thinks, when they have a project to work on; they can just talk to the kids about the task at hand, not try to elicit feelings or deeper truths. Emily’s bought a range of toys: Barbies, stuffed animals, little toy cars, art supplies. “Wow, you got a lot,” Mulder says. “Aren’t other people bringing toys too?”

“Of course they are,” Emily says, tearing off neat strips of tape and lining them up along the edge of the table. “But I always like to get things. The more the merrier.”

“This is cute,” Scully says, taking a stuffed bunny to wrap. Looking at the toys here makes her think of all the years she missed. She’ll never wrap toys for her own kids, even if she’ll wrap them alongside them.

“Thanks,” Emily says. “They give us a list of things kids are asking for, so I try my best to get them.” She’s wrapping an art set. “I used to love these things. It’s so much fun, getting Christmas presents.” She and Mulder have gotten the kids presents, at least, Scully thinks. But she’s not sure if they made the right choices. After years of no presents, the first one holds too much weight. “I’m going to take them over to the church tomorrow,” she adds. “Maybe you could come?”

“If you’d like,” Scully says. In some ways it seems safer, going with the kids at Christmas instead of a regular weekend. There’ll probably be a lot more people there; they won’t have to face as many questions. Yet it feels loaded, too, this season of joy and miracles. You might say she’s got her miracle now: her children, found. Her family, together. It’s a miracle that she wants to believe in, that she desperately wants not to lose, but it’s work, too, every day. Of course that’s partly her own fault. Another complication. She shakes her head, sticking a piece of tape to the wrapping paper. “Are there any other special things your church does at Christmas?” she asks. “Besides the toy drive.”

“We have special decorations,” Emily says. “Lots of holly and all that.”

“And cookies,” William adds. “After the service.”

“Well, there are always cookies,” Emily says, “but the Christmas ones are especially good. And we have lots of singing.”

“Do you like singing?” Scully asks.

“Well, I like it,” Emily says, “but…” She pauses as if deep in thought.

“But she’s terrible at it,” William says. “That’s what she’s trying to find a way to say.” He grins. Scully tries to think whether he’s included them in a joke before. She doesn’t think he has. Maybe that’s another miracle.

“I am bad,” Emily says. “But that’s not the point, when you’re singing in church. Being good or bad, I mean.”

“I’m not a good singer either,” Scully says. She likes finding these commonalities, however tenuous.

“Aw, you’re not bad,” Mulder says. He’s wrapping an unwieldy teddy bear, and her heart surges with love. She’s been feeling that a lot when she looks at him lately, when so much else is uncertain.

“I bet the kids are really going to like these,” Scully says. “You’re…” She’s not sure what to say. _You’re a good person_ , she wants to tell Emily, because she’s learned in the past two months that she is, truly good. She’s afraid the words will sound overly simple, that she won’t be expressing what she really feels. But she wants to be honest with the kids, to not hold back. So she says it. “You’re a good person.”

Emily smiles. “Thank you,” she says. “I try to be. I don’t think I’m anything that special. But Christmas should be about doing good things for people. That’s what we’re meant to do.” She ties a ribbon around one of the packages, carefully.

Maybe Emily’s right; at least, Scully feels a pull from the words. She knows that Emily’s faith is of a different brand from her own. Emily doesn’t have the doubts she has. Emily has things she knows she has to do—go to church, spend what looks like a week’s rent on toys for kids who don’t have any, be endlessly kind to the rest of them even when things are unbearably tense—and she does them. But the idea of Christmas as a time of goodwill is one that Scully can share.

“I’ll go with you tomorrow,” she tells Emily. “At least to bring the presents.”

“Oh, that’s great!” Emily says, and she’s smiling now.

Yesterday was a hard day. They still have those. They’re not uncommon. They still hurt like hell.

It started off as a simple conversation—about baseball season coming up, about William playing, about going to see his games. And then it turned into a discussion of how they’d never seen any of his games before, how they had no right to be excited to see him play now, it had nothing to do with them, because they left him, they gave him up, maybe the Van de Kamps had ulterior motives but at least they had been there to help him learn to catch a ball, which was more than could be said for Mulder or Scully, and that was their fault, and they couldn’t just come in and start to care now and expect everything to be great. William slammed his door. Emily followed him, but when she came back downstairs, she didn’t say anything, only looked troubled. Scully cried in the bathroom that night, when she was getting ready for bed; Mulder knew she’d been crying, of course, and they held each other tightly in the guest room bed in the home of their children’s other parents, her head tucked under his chin.

They decided to give him space this morning, so they didn’t come down until after the kids left for church. When they get back, William gives them a tentative smile as he comes through the door. “Hi,” he says.

“Hi,” Mulder says.

“Hi,” Scully says. Maybe it’s enough. They eat breakfast together, the four of them, and talk about watching a movie that night.

Scully can feel the tension dissipating as she washes the breakfast dishes with Emily; Mulder and William are taking a walk. “Are you okay?” Emily asks, looking at her as she passes her a dish to dry.

She’s promised herself that she won’t make Emily her sounding board, but she doesn’t want to lie either. “Better,” she says. “Thanks.”

“Do you…” Emily pauses, scrubbing at a plate. “Do you…sorry if I shouldn’t be asking…do you have anyone who can help you? Or anything?”

She’s touched, but she doesn’t want Emily to be worrying about her. “Thank you for asking, sweetheart,” she says. “I have Mulder.”

“Oh, of course,” Emily says. “But…I guess I meant someone more outside.”

“You mean like a therapist?” Scully asks. “I don’t right now. But you’re right. It wouldn’t be a bad idea.”

“Or even…I don’t know,” Emily says. “It’s just that you’re always trying to take care of us. And that’s good, don’t get me wrong. And I think I kind of know what it’s like…not exactly, of course…but I try to help Will too.”

“You help a lot, Emily,” Scully says. “I just worry that it’s too much—”

“See, that’s what I mean,” Emily says, and Scully has to admit that she has a point. “But maybe if you had something to take you out of it all. Crocheting’s like that for me. And church.”

Crocheting and church aren’t necessarily analogous activities, in Scully’s mind. “What do you mean?” she asks.

“Well, when I crochet,” Emily says, “I don’t really worry about things, because I start concentrating on the pattern. And even when you don’t do a lot at once, at least you get something done, you know? There’s more there than there was before. And I think it’s the same way, with church.” She almost laughs, as Scully looks at her. “I’m really not explaining it very well. But I guess—well, it’s like the pattern. There’s a place for everything, even if it doesn’t look like it at first. I was upset about last night too, today, but it helped to be there and remind myself of that. And that we can work on things a little bit at a time. Just to think about being part of something, with other people…” She breaks off again. “It’s hard to explain. It’s just something that helps me.”

“That’s good,” Scully says. She means it, even if it can’t be true for her.

“So I just wondered if you had something that takes you out of things like that,” Emily says. “You don’t have to tell me what it is or anything.”

Scully thinks. “I don’t know if I do.”

“I hope you don’t think…I’m not trying to make you come to church with us,” Emily says. “It’s just that’s what really helps me. But it doesn’t have to help you.”

“It’s complicated,” Scully says. “There are…sometimes it’s comforting and sometimes it isn’t.” Emily nods. “Maybe because of everything I’ve seen,” she says. “In the FBI and…everything.” She doesn’t know quite what _everything_ encompasses for her.

“That could be hard,” Emily says.

“Sometimes,” she says, “it’s hard for me to know what to believe in.” She doesn’t know if she should be saying this. She doesn’t really want to get into a whole theological discussion with Emily. She doesn’t want to shake Emily’s faith with her own unsteady fumblings. She doesn’t know if she wants to believe or not.

Emily’s face is concerned, as she looks at her, and Scully wishes she could say something to make her stop worrying. That shouldn’t be Emily’s job. She wishes it were easy, that she could just say, _Of course, you’re so right, I’ll go back to going to church every week_. She used to wish she could say that to her mom sometimes. Apparently, the ability to make her feel guilty spans the generations. (And it hasn’t skipped her, either. She’s very, very good at making herself feel guilty). She thinks about the times her faith has helped to free her and all the times it’s helped her pile that guilt on. “Sometimes I just feel small,” she says. That’s not what she meant to tell Emily. She doesn’t know, herself, if she means it as a good thing or a bad thing.

Emily nods but doesn’t say anything, as they finish putting the dishes away. “Well,” she says, “maybe I could teach you to crochet.”

She’s never been much of a one for craft projects (they seem like something she should like, but she always finds herself lacking the patience), but in this moment that seems nicer, simpler, and she nods too.

Scully’s known all along that Emily would like to have her join them at church, even though she hasn’t said it right out. But it hasn’t been a place she’s wanted to go. She helped Emily bring over the toys at Christmas, but that was as far as it went; she didn’t stay for the service or take one of the (very delicious-looking) cookies. She’s not sure why that is. Maybe because it’s not the church she grew up in. Maybe because it’s hard for her to express her own faith. Maybe because it’s part of the lives her children have led without her.

But it’s Easter. They’ve been here six months now. Emily’s got a new dress and sweater; they’re bright yellow, and she looks beautiful. “Do you want to come with us, Dana?” she asks, and Scully thinks maybe she should do this for her. That this isn’t about herself.

“Sure,” she says. “I’ll come.”

They ride to church in Emily’s car, that morning. Emily’s in the new dress, and Will looks spruced up too: even his shoes are clean. Scully hadn’t really thought about church clothes when she’d packed to come here; she plucks at the collar of her blouse. They get some stares when they walk in, which isn’t surprising. It’s a small community, and she’s sure people have heard exaggerated versions of their story, which is wild enough as it is. But they sit down in a pew, the three of them in a row.

The order of the service is unfamiliar to her—more than she expected, maybe. There’s no Latin. She folds her hands in her lap, over the prayer book.

She looks over at the kids, sitting next to her. They look calm, at ease. When Emily catches her looking, she reaches out and touches her hand.

She tries to lose herself in this moment, like Emily said. In being here with her children, and in sharing something they might all believe in, even if it’s not in the same way. Maybe there can be a kind of faith in that.


End file.
